if the turtle is too big for me to observe
it is no different than if I am too small for the turtle to  observe

if neither of us can observe each other
then whether we exist or not is irrelevant
to each other

I look up at the stars,
they exist

I look down at the gound
it exists

no where do I see the turtle
— not below the ground
— not swimming between the stars

three naked bodies
in a boat upon the river
all me — all me, I tell you
they are me
filthy with nakedity

there is a spirit
there vibrating on the edge
where the water seems like heaven
like heaven, i tell you
as i slip off the stony ledge

the memory of a salmon
on the tongues of carp
my story — my story, I tell you
that was me
filthy without history

the skunk is shuffling
beside the back door
unafraid of me, perhaps
because she does not know
i am there on the other side

she climbs the rubbish,
ruffles through full of hunger
for some unknown meal
and leaves wanting

i watch her leave
i watch her leave
and let her go
relieved — but sad for her
and how she wants

bodies are bodies, this means nothing
to the stars for they are bodies too
bare and cold and wanting
nothing but the endless joy of night

minds are minds, this means nothing
to the gods, for they are minds too
lost and forgotten and wanting
nothing but the joyful light of day

souls are souls, this means something
but what, that is the first question
and but why, that is the next — and the next
and the next until there is nothing left

All honey,  so sweet and all sweetness you
your name, i know it smooth upon my lip
whispered in the night  to the morning dew
by tender dream with gentle velvet grip

The spring, she springs so gay and bright divine,
is that you leaping with her hand in hand?
goddesses are lovely — but winter’s design
like summer’s fading into fall’s more grand

Ah, sweet allness you, so dear, my honey
your name, I know it, I know it as pure true
when it rains, it’s love, and when it’s sunny
i know the golden warmth is only you

All honey, you’re so sweet and so dear
There is no God for me unless you’re near.

The best crazed men know nothing
of the dreams of hippos — which
seems obvious, since the best
uncrazed men know nothing
of the dreams of hippos either.

But there is a distinction, crazed men
are related to the dreams of hippos
and uncrazed men are never anything
but men (or hippos if they forget themselves
and eat a bit too much)

when the darkness comes tonight
when the clouds descend
when the madness seems too mad
tell me you’re my friend

if the crescent moon is witness
if the stars make no reply
if the madness seems unstartled
by the way the moment dies

take day for granted then
take the sun to bed
take the madness by the hand
and tell her what you said

i breath and breath
and breath —  as if life
is only breath

you tell me with bright eyes
and gentle smile — life
is this  (a kind thought
when kindness seems too far away)
and that (a hand to hold
when hope has long let go)

i close my eyes
i hold my breath
and live
and live
and live

Bubba Jones had two thumbs
on each hand — he yowled
into the night, perhaps with hope
love was blind enough to miss his deformity.

I told him to live
not in the shadows, but in the middle
of the meadow near the tallest trees
where the song birds sang

Listen, God, just listen
to them dance on kindly airs
and tell each other stories
of loves lost for lack of color.

I thought he understood
until the night he gave up
and found himself
dead beneath the wheels
of an orange and white Chevy pickup

the fables told by passerine
to their feathered kin
become the myths of fowl folk
sun over wind-raised wing

story story allegory, poetry and praise
a talon holds to twig
a tiny voice tells half a tale
to fly again — again

yellower than sunshine’s smile
a warbler in the pine
whisper, whisper — there he is
and then goodbye